Every time the door opens, she jumps, turning to look over her shoulder. Then she acts nonchalant, like she’s not twitchy. I try to catch her eye but she avoids my gaze. It reminds me of that day on the Sweetheart Train, and just like then, I don’t know how to get through to her.
After the meeting, I catch up to her in the hallway, take her arm, and pull her into me. Even as we’re touching, chest to hip, something feels wrong. Like she’s keeping a piece of herself back from me.
“Playoffs are meant to be tough,” I say. “Just try to breathe, Beaumont.”
She nods and pulls back from me, pushing her hair from her face.
“Yeah, right, I know. Thanks.” She’s not meeting my eye. “I’m going to visit Gran tonight, so I’ll probably just stay at my place.”
Something is wrong. But before I can say anything, she’s rising up onto her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, and pulling away, walking down the hallway with quick steps.
Wren sleeps through the flight to Florida the next morning, and I sit next to her trying to figure out what to do.
We squeak through the rest of the series against Florida, picking up the pieces and coming back. Callum and I are practically dead, playing our asses off, spending way too much time on the ice.
After our first series, we have a celebration at Cal’s place. Wren shows up late and leaves early, and when I try to follow her out, she’s already gone.
With our win against the Panthers, we start our series against the Bruins feeling a little more assured. This time, we’ve done twice as much preparing, watching film, drinking, thinking, and sleeping Bruins.
But from the opening face-off, it’s déjà vu. Strategy flies out the window again. It’s like they know what we’re going to do before we do it, like every movement of the puck is clearly lined up for them.
Coach, who’s normally composed, throws his clipboard on the ground in front of the bench where it explodes into a million pieces. That feeling diffuses through the rest of the guys, and we all start to fall apart.
The Bruins take the game four to nothing. When we walk to the locker room, it’s with the sense that something incredibly heavy is on our shoulders.
Back at the hotel, I stand in the shower for too long, letting the scalding hot water run over me, turning my skin bright red. When I step out into the steamed-up bathroom, I grab a towel and dry off, and I’m scrubbing that towel over my hair when I walk out and find Wren sitting at the end of the bed, staring at me.
“Wren.” This is my chance—I need to talk to her. Figure out what’s going on in her head, why she’s been pulling away from me lately. Why it feels like I can’t reach out and touch her anymore. But her gaze scrapes up me, from my bare feet to my shoulders, and sends a hot thrill through me.
“Luca,” she says, standing. She walks over to me, flattening her hands against my stomach and running them up to my chest.
I shouldn’t get distracted, but it feels too good. Her body against mine, my fingers in her hair, that soft sound at the back of her throat when I touch her the way she likes. Without a word, she slips off her Frost-branded polo, letting it fall to the floor. I help her step out of her pants, lift her up so her legs come to wrap around me, and carry her to the bed.
Wren is a blend of soft and strong. Her body a river, mine a rock, and everything between us hot and slick—the sweet, impossible pleasure of her touch. I’ve never been a religious man, but this is what people must feel in church.
It’s like lifting out of yourself, connecting with something more than what could ever possibly exist in your own body.
“Here,” Wren whispers, and I loosen my grip on her so she can twist around, finding purchase on her hands and knees to pull a pillow up under her chest. My heart thuds when she nestles her hips against mine, my cock meeting her where she’s wet.
Something about it feels wrong. Something about everything—the playoffs so far, Wren’s sudden distance—feels wrong, but I can’t put a finger on it.
“Luca,” Wren rasps, looking over her shoulder at me with such wanting that it sends another wave of heat through me. Her strawberry blonde hair shines in the dim hotel lamp light, her eyes deep and black, her skin smooth and milky. Everythingabout her is perfect—breathtaking. How I’ve ever been attracted to another woman is beyond me.
“Please,” she says.
And so I do, taking her hips and pressing into her, reveling in the sounds of her pleasure. Right now, this feels like the closest we can be. And after, when I’ve shown her that I’m still here for her, we’ll talk. I’ll figure out what’s going on.
But for right now, I’ll focus on just making her feel good.
***
When I wake up the next morning, my hotel room is empty.
There’s a clear spot on the bed that Wren once occupied, and I roll over, staring at it for a second, trying to parse what happened last night with what’s been going on with her lately.
We have to talk.
I’m reaching for my phone to call her when it starts to buzz, Callum’s name flashing across the screen. For a second, I think about ignoring him, just focusing on Wren, but I remember Sloane is very pregnant and pick up the call.
